Strays
by LondonBelow
Summary: When 15-year-old Scott brings home a stray, Charles faces a question he never thought he would need to answer: "Can we keep him?"


The usual disclaimer: I don't own the X-Men, characters, or places you recognize. And I'm pretty sure "mutant" is a protected term. This is purely for fun, no profit is being made.

Notes: This is part of my "Stars from Home" series, but is tangential to the main plot and so should make sense on its own.

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><p><strong>January, 1963<strong>

Scott Summers pushed his bike down the road. He was fifteen, in desperate need of a haircut and soaking wet because the tall trees offered little protection from the elements. His shoes squelched when he walked (stupid puddles!) but that was okay. He had things to do in town and now that they were done he could get home and dry off.

Charles and Hank never seemed to leave anymore. Granted, it helped having a home about the size of a city block—squared, length and width.

That was the sort of math that elicited a deeply pitying look from Charles. Never mind deprivation.

Scott liked that word, 'deprivation'. To be deprived. To have something withheld from you.

The way Charles looked at him when he expressed that shameful mite of pride at understanding a number being "squared" clarified that to him a failure to achieve one's education was a deprivation right to the soul. Scott and understood about as much algebra as he understood Latin.

No… Scott reflected that he needed a better comparison. Hank said a lot of English words were Latin in origin, so sometimes guessing the meaning was possible. So maybe Scott understood as much algebra as he understood how to talk to girls. That was a lot more accurate, since Scott couldn't do either.

Which seemed like a deprivation to Charles's soul.

The algebra thing, anyway, since even though his one-block-square sprawl of a mansion had enough space to feel like freedom, there hadn't been a woman there since Moira's last visit more than a month ago. Charles didn't talk to girls any more than Scott did.

Thunder crashed and Scott sighed. He walked awkwardly. One arm curled against his stomach; the other hand kept his bike steady. Riding a bike with a basket on front was a little embarrassing until he needed to shuttle groceries. Then it was only embarrassing when he wiped out, which wasn't often, even in the rain. In snow, he pushed the bicycle.

That's not why he was pushing the bike today. It wasn't snowing, anyway, it was raining. His sweater was soaked three inches down from the shoulders and his jeans were wet from the knees. His middle was only raindrop-speckled. He would have run to avoid too much time in the rain, but that wasn't an option.

He leaned his bike against the wall and pushed open the gate. Two thoughts struggled in his mind. First, he needed to find some oil to fix that gate. Second—_his_ bike! His! Well, sort of. He fixed it up and a bicycle isn't much good to a paraplegic, so Charles let him keep it.

For the first time in his life, Scott had his very own bicycle.

Sort of.

For now.

He sighed and wheeled the bike inside. It was his until Charles changed his mind. That was okay with Scott. A loaned bike was much better than no bike at all.

The gate squealed shut. He would see about oil. The gate howled like the Tin Man in _The Wizard of Oz_.

A lot of things about that movie seemed silly to Scott. He kept his mouth shut when Hank watched it or played the record, especially since that song made him want to cry at night, but what was so bad about living on a farm? And not having colors? Scott hadn't seen colors in years. He didn't have an aunt and uncle, either.

Dorothy had a nice voice but she was a whiny bitch. She was worse than Cinderella!

The rain picked up as Scott hurried up the driveway. He parked the bike and, with one arm, grabbed the grocery bag. He paused just inside the front door to wriggle his sneakers off. It didn't do tons of good. His socks slapped the floor like flippers with every step, leaving a trail of wet sock-prints into the kitchen. He yanked off his socks—which earned him several tiny pokes in the stomach and still didn't really solve his problem, since the bottom half of his jeans was soaked, too, but the groceries had to be put away and the kitchen floor was tile. Easy to clean.

Putting the groceries away took a while one-handed. Much as Scott would have liked to hole up in his room and hide, he had responsibilities. Even little ones, like cleaning up, mattered.

"Hello Scott."

He thought a string of obscenities.

"Um, hey, Professor."

Scott didn't turn around. He kept putting away groceries, which was a good excuse.

"I, uh, a-about the… about the water—"

"It's fine."

"I'll clean up. I swear."

"All right. I'm not angry."

Scott nodded and put a loaf of bread in the cupboard. He reached for the peanut butter. This time he didn't know the meaning behind the sharp pain in his belly, but it made him drop the peanut butter. He caught it again—another round of tiny stabs and a sound that made Scott's blood go cold: a mewl.

"Scott?" Charles asked.

"I—uh—that—that was—I—um…"

"It's fine. It was an accident."

Scott gulped. He hadn't heard! "Right. Th-thank you."

He hurried to finish with the groceries. There weren't a lot. Nobody knew how to cook. Scott could make pancakes and any of them knew how to fix a peanut butter sandwich, but they tended to eat take-out usually. So he had a relatively brief task and no decent reason to feel nervous.

Only, as he turned to leave, Scott found that the Professor had maneuvered directly into his path. He froze. The Professor was a nice person, he really was, but Scott didn't know how to talk to nice people. Sooner or later, Charles would realize what was in Scott's head. It would break him worse than the algebra issue.

Right now they both had something else to think about. Namely, the visible movement under Scott's sweater.

"Ah… Scott…"

Before Charles could formulate a question, the movement shifted—Scott winced—and an angular, furry head poked out above the zipper of his hoodie.

Scott lowered his head. His arms curled around the cat and its ears brushed his chin.

"I… it's not what it…" he tried. Yes, of course it was what it looked like. He had a stray cat snuggling up inside his sweater! There were no two ways about that!

Besides, he wasn't a _real_ stray. Scott had decided to protect him, and was he a stray if he had a home?

The excuses were not going to work.

Scott raised his head. He couldn't make eye contact because of his glasses, which made faking eye contact a lot easier. The statement twirled around. It wasn't easy. A single word, even, that much was never easy for Scott, but this one hung a little further back.

"Please?"

Charles pretended not to understand. "Please what?"

He hadn't been the tough one. He hadn't been the one to push Sean off the satellite dish. He was learning, however, that kindness was not always helpful. Reading Scott's mind would not help the boy any.

Scott looked at his would-be pet and worked his jaw, then back to Charles.

Perhaps, Charles thought, Scott had a secondary mutation: puppy-dog eyes through sunglasses.

"Can we keep him?"

Charles sighed. If it were something smaller, asking alone would have merited a reward. When he first arrived, Scott used to ask permission to eat. At least those days were over. All the same, asking for something he wanted was an accomplishment.

Unfortunately Scott wasn't asking for a record or a late curfew. A pet affected everyone and Charles did not want that animal clawing up his furniture and marking its territory everywhere.

"We'll see."

"Please—I—you wouldn't even—I'll take care of him, a-and… I can eat less, so it wouldn't be, you know, cost anything—"

"Enough! That's not how this is going to work. Whether the cat stays or goes, this is not a zero-sum game and if the cat leaves, it goes to someone who'll look after it. But it's here now. Give it some milk or… whatever cats eat."

Just like the bicycle: Scott's until Charles decided otherwise. And just like the bicycle, Scott was okay with that.

He grinned, lit up like a Christmas tree, and nodded. "Yessir."

"I've asked you not to call me—never mind. Go ahead."

Scott nodded. He poured a cup of milk and unzipped his sweater, letting the cat spill out. The cat didn't need any more incentive and ducked his sharp nose into the cup. Scott shrugged out of his sweater. It was soaked, not really keeping him warm.

He had meant to change into dry clothes, but the cat changed his mind. He settled on the floor, cross-legged, and ran a hand along the cat's back. It was a scrawny thing, filthy, with bones jutting against its skin. From the look on Scott's face, he didn't care. He seemed to think this was the most beautiful cat he had ever seen.

"When did we get a cat?"

Hank stood in the doorway. His expression was difficult to read.

"It may not be staying," Charles replied.

Scott muttered something.

"What was that?"

He swallowed and half-whispered, "He. Not it."

Charles glanced between Scott and Hank. "Yes," he said. "Of course. He. If he doesn't stay, he'll—we'll find another home for the cat."

"Charles," Hank said, softly, and was that a hint of rebuke in his tone? He touched his head.

Some people spelled to keep secrets. That wasn't necessary when having a private conversation with a telepath—which was lucky, since Scott was a good speller.

_'You have to let him keep the cat,'_ Hank thought.

_'I haven't made up my mind yet,'_ Charles replied.

_'Yeah,'_ Hank agreed, '_but look at the kid. You can't take that away.'_

They both looked at Scott, who was oblivious, too busy petting the ugly stray animal beside him. Only Scott would love an animal that pathetic.

Of course, he had been small and he had been vulnerable. This was new. Scott looked young. He looked like a fifteen-year-old boy who wasn't thinking about his nightmares, or all too real monsters.

He was just happy. Just a kid.

"Where did you find him?" Hank asked.

"Behind the dumpster." Scott meant in town, that much was clear. "He was alone—some kids were messing with him. He couldn't look after himself."

Hank walked to the sink and ran the tap for a while. Then he blocked the drain and let the water fill the basin. Only after he had shut it off did he say, "Bring him up here. Scott, bring the cat up here."

Scott rested a hand on the cat's back, protective. "W-why?"

"It's okay."

He shook his head and hugged the cat to his chest.

Hank crouched. The cowering boy on the floor was his friend. Right now, that was difficult to remember the way Scott looked at him. "I'm not going to hurt him, but that animal is filthy and crawling with fleas. He needs a bath. You can help. Come on."

Warily, Scott climbed to his feet. He kept his eyes on Hank as he lowered the cat into the sink.

The cat mewled miserably and tried to scramble out of the water.

"He doesn't like it," Scott observed.

"Hold him," Hank replied. He scooped a handful of water over the cat, then another, watching his fur turn damp and the water turn gray. Worse, though, were the swirls of pink. However long the cat had been on his own, he had more than a few scabs.

Finally, faced with the foolishness of washing with dirty water, Hank drained the sink.

"Hank, he doesn't like it," Scott insisted when Hank turned on the water again.

"Cats don't like water," Charles chimed in.

"Except a breed of Turkish cat," Hank offered. "They can actually swim."

Wet, the cat looked even more pathetic. It looked unhappy, too. To Charles and Hank it was a gray cat with green eyes. To Scott he was red. They all saw his angles and sharp features and big ears. Scott scratched his would-be pet, sloshing dirty water into the sink.

As they began a second round of cat-washing, the stray was slightly more resigned and thrashed less.

"You know, he hasn't been a stray long," Hank commented.

"How can you tell?" Scott asked.

"He lets you hold him," Hank explained. "A real alley cat wouldn't let you anyone near him, but this one trusts you. Have you thought about a name?"

Charles cleared his throat meaningfully.

But Scott replied, "Yeah. D… um… darting…"

"Are you trying to say 'd'Artagnan'?"

It was no secret that Scott was reading _The Three Musketeers_. It was a poorly kept secret that he sometimes pretended he was a musketeer, too.

Scott nodded.

"How can you name him something you can't pronounce?" Hank asked.

Scott shrugged. "Artie, for short."

"Artie," Hank repeated. He nodded. "I like it. By the way, he's a she."

"What?"

"She—Artie—she's a girl."

"Oh. Really? How can you tell?"

"She doesn't have testicles." Hank lifted the cat's tail. "See, you can tell that her urogenital opening is a labial slit, whereas a cat's penis is more like a hole; it's partially retractable—"

"Hank," Charles said, "I think you've made your point very clearly."

"What—oh. Right," Hank agreed, noticing that Scott had turned a very blistering shade of red. He dropped Artie's tail. "Go ahead and dry her off. That should take care of the fleas for now. I can teach you to make a flea repellant, it's mostly herbs."

"You know how to do that?" Scott asked. He wrapped the unhappy cat in a dishtowel, catching a few scratches to his arms, and started drying her fur.

"Sure. I'll make a list of all you need for it. My mom loves animals but she can't handle chemicals," Hank explained. "I won a blue ribbon in the science fair. And my first patent—not that I won my first patent, but a local pet supply company noticed."

"May I get to the sink now?" Charles had a way of asking questions that made them very clearly not questions.

Hank and Scott shifted out of the way. Scott settled on the floor, still drying the cat with a now rather stained tea towel. She looked none too happy, but he liked to think maybe she trusted him. If, like Hank said, she was used to people, she needed someone. She was domesticated.

He could do that.

Silently, looking at her clumpy wet fur and narrowed eyes, Scott promised to take care of her. He wouldn't let anything happen to her, and she wouldn't be alone, and nobody would hurt her. Nobody.

"Oh, Scott? Cats don't drink milk," Hank said.

"What?"

"Cow's milk isn't good for cats. Actually, she might get a little messy—"

"I'll clean it up." Scott said it more for Charles more than Hank. Hank didn't seem to mind the cat, but he still needed permission to keep it. That meant Charles's agreement.

Worse, he had hurt the cat! He had just promised he wouldn't and…

Scott scratched Artie under the chin. When she started to purr like an engine, he forgave himself a little for giving her the milk.

_'Are you listening?'_ Hank thought.

Charles did not even look up from measuring out his tea. '_You know I am.'_

_'He thinks it's him.'_

_'What?'_

_'Look at them. Small, pathetic, bedraggled creature, unable to defend itself… doesn't that remind you of someone else?'_

Charles knew more of Scott's history than Hank did. The night they met, Scott had broken ribs and Charles watched as his previous guardian began beating him for running away. While Hank hadn't been there, he wasn't a fool. That kind of bruising told a clear story.

So did the look on Scott's face.

"Oh, all right," he ceded. Hank was right—as usual—he couldn't take that away from Scott. "The cat's to stay outdoors only, is that understood?"

Scott nodded.

"Or the garage, in this weather. But not in the house!"

The only objection to this Scott thought was a single disbelieving word: _house?_

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><p>Less than a month later, Charles had to admit that he did not mind the cat. It stayed outdoors or in the garage and both Hank and Scott seemed happy to have a pet. In general, Charles cared little for such animals, but he cared for his friends. Artie the cat seemed a positive addition.<p>

He heard both of them before he saw them: "…and he passed his brother!"

That was clearly hilarious to Scott and Hank, who burst out laughing as Charles maneuvered through the kitchen door.

"Did Scott just tell a joke?" Charles asked, mock-incredulous.

"Maybe," Scott muttered to the tabletop.

"Or is it the Oreo thing again?"

Scott blushed faintly and continued staring at the tabletop, but he couldn't hide that he was smiling.

Hank and Scott sat on opposite sides of the table, a Scrabble board between them and each with a mug at his elbow. Neither of them appreciated tea—Charles could babble all day about the utter lack of civility, but neither of them was exactly a grown-up, either. So he grabbed a handful of marshmallows from a bag left on the counter.

He turned just in time to see Hank give Scott a meaningful look. Scott gave a brief, determined shake of his head.

Charles meant to take another side of the table but instead found himself at an odd angle and able to see Hank's letters. He paid more attention to Hank, who gave a not very subtle jerk of his head to indicate Charles.

"Shall we draw lots?" Charles asked.

Hank and Scott looked at one another, then at Charles.

"Like Sunday school?" Scott asked. He looked up briefly, then back to his letters. They were a plausible distraction, but Charles and Hank both knew Scott wasn't comfortable looking at Charles while speaking to him.

"No, not _Lot_," Hank explained. "Draw lots, it's another term for 'draw straws'. Whoever draws the short straw has to complete the unpleasant task."

"Oh. Um, w-which, what task?"

"Telling me whatever it is you don't want to tell me," Charles explained. "You can tell me, Hank can tell me, or I can…" He wriggled his fingers by his head, indicating his telepathy. "…simplify the process. What will it be? Scott?"

Scott shook his head. "It's noth—"

"He's been sleeping in the garage," Hank blurted.

Charles looked at the image in Hank's memory and knew it was true: Scott, with that same green hoodie and half-shredded jeans, curled around Artie on the garage floor.

"Oh, Scott."

Scott's jaw dropped and he gave an incredulous look at Hank. It was a strangely familiar look and after a moment Charles realized Scott looked just like Alex had when Hank told on him for breaking the statue.

"I told you I would tell him if you didn't," Hank replied.

Charles swallowed a mouthful of marshmallow and asked, "How long have you known about this?"

"Two games of Scrabble, but the first one only lasted twenty minutes."

Scott mumbled something unintelligible. Charles picked out one word: "Protozoan."

"What was that?"

"Protozoan," Hank supplied. "Scott ceded when I spelled it over two triple letter scores."

"How long has this been going on?" Charles asked.

"Maybe half an hour—"

"No, not the game. Scott?"

He shrugged. "'m sorry. I never took anything—the blanket or anything."

Clearly he had thought about it. He should have. If Charles could not convince Scott to sleep in a bed, at least he could sleep warm on the garage floor. Part of the purpose in bringing him here had been protecting him and another part giving him a better life.

Scott didn't know how to live a better life.

"This is because of the cat, isn't it?" Charles asked.

"It's cold out there and it gets dark."

Hank gave Charles a look, a mix of an 'I told you so'—which Charles saw from very few people and did not very much like—and 'don't do this'. Charles chose to ignore the warning. He was not about to allow a fifteen-year-old orphan to sleep in his garage. He felt like Wackford Squeers even thinking about it.

Charles leaned forward. "Cats see very well in the dark," he explained. "Evolution does more than enable us to read minds or shoot lasers from our eyes, it also gives us useful traits such as opposable thumbs. For cats and similar animals, this includes not only seeing with little light but heightened senses. They need their vision less than we do, and can use it more. Do you understand?"

Scott chewed on his thumbnail for a while, his hair hiding his face. They could argue about the haircut after they argued about the cat—not that they would actually argue. Charles found himself taking both sides. He did not particularly mind hairstyles, but he minded the way Scott used his hair as one more excuse not to look at people when they talked to him, to pretend he was in his own world.

"But it's dark," Scott almost whispered. "Not even the stars."

"It's dark to you," Charles acknowledged. "It's not so dark to Artie."

Scott placed five tiles on the Scrabble board and went to draw more.

Hank stopped him: "That's not a word."

"It is if it's a verb," Scott replied.

Hank paused, considering, and Scott remained still as he did. Then Hank nodded and Scott drew his letters.

Normally Charles found Scrabble only slightly less stimulating than golf as a spectator sport. Today was different. He chewed through the rest of his marshmallows one by one as he watched Hank and Scott. Hank was relaxed. He had a notepad at his elbow with notes scratched on it, nothing to do with the game, idle thoughts of organic chemistry, unless Charles was mistaken.

Charles may have been mistaken.

Scott, meanwhile, looked nervous. He gnawed at the cuff of his sweater and bounced his leg under the table. Even with those glasses, Charles had the impression that Scott glanced over at him a few times a minute. There was a thought in his head, impossible to miss: _am I in trouble?_

Scott was not in trouble, though ordering him not to sleep in the garage was tempting. Of course, that would need to be 'in the garage or outside'—but not 'only in your bed'. Scott had fallen asleep watching the news once. Charles didn't mind, but he did not trust Scott to understand that. For someone so keen on reading, he had a very weak grasp of connotations in explicit directions.

Charles swallowed the last of his marshmallows and announced, "I don't care to have the cat in the house and it's to be avoided as much as possible. However, you may feed her in the kitchen and keep her in your room whenever you like. She'll have to be welcome inside during storms, as well," because he worried Scott might otherwise spend half the winter camped in the garage, giving himself pneumonia.

Then he would spend the next six weeks apologizing for the mess of hacking up a lung.

"Really?"

Scott rarely smiled. Now he did, the hope and joy in his expression making him grin so hugely he practically showed molars.

Charles nodded. He glanced at the window, blurred from snowfall. Artie would be in the garage with some old towels and catnip toys. As far as cats' concerns she was probably quite happy; there had never been much risk to her… but only in terms of cats' concerns. It was in terms of teenagers' concerns—and Charles saw now that Hank had been right. Scott thought he was the cat.

Somehow, the next few hours passed without Hank using four simple words.

It was evening before Charles mentioned that.

Scott had yet to lose interest in the cat. The only thing shy of an explicit order that coaxed him away from was Artie's complete lack of interest in him when she was busy eating, sleeping, or bathing herself. It was the happiest Charles had seen Scott, all over a scrawny stray.

"He actually smiled at me," he commented to Hank. "This is not where I imagined myself."

He had also never anticipated being a shut-in in this quiet old house, but if he had, he wouldn't have counted on playing this many games. He didn't mind. Chess passed the time.

Hank kept his eyes on the board. He knew a thing or two about unexpected situations.

"Aren't you going to say it?"

"I don't need to," Hank replied. "How badly do you miss Moira?"

"What?"

Charles realized he had been caressing the pawn and moved his hand.

"Delightful, Hank."

Hank shrugged. He had a maddeningly self-satisfied look on his face.

"What will we do next," Charles mused.

"You'll move," Hank replied, nodding at the chessboard, "I'll move against you. I'll try to pay attention, but become distracted too easily." All of their chess games went that way. Charles hadn't played against someone with his calm passion for the game since… well, in a good while.

"What do you suppose the chances are he's actually in bed?"

Hank thought about that for a moment. "He found your copy of _Monte Cristo_."

Charles sighed, not quite amused enough to laugh but well aware that he should have known. "Take another ten minutes debating between Sokolsky and Blackmar-Diemer," he suggested. For a genius, Hank had surprisingly little variation in his chess openings. "I'm going to remind Scott that it's a school night."

That surprised Hank enough to silence him for ten seconds. Charles was nearly to the door when Hank retorted, "Pawn to d4, knight to f6!"

Charles laughed, recognizing the King's Indian Defense.

"And I told you so."

"You did indeed."

**.**

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**The End**


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